Inclusiveness Atypically Hufflepuff
by whitesakura-rain
Summary: Her plants took as they gave, and they didn’t fight with the other plants that she planted. They were the ideal community. As Helga would probably comment, is that not enough? A Helga Hufflepuff HoH Challenge fanfic.
1. Challenge Chapter

Mini Author's Note: This fanfic is written in response to Veritaserum's bajab's (17/09/05) The Houses of Hogwarts challenge. The third of four installments (one for each House of Hogwarts), this one is the only one so far that has taken me bloody long to research! And after that I got into a rut because the protagonist needs to exemplify the characteristics and traits of the chosen house. Gah… Why didn't I just choose Cedric and be done with it! Well anyway, the rules say that it needs to be a short story, so don't worry; you won't have to suffer too much from my crazy writing and dim mutters—I hope. I'm writing about Helga in this one because… that was what I had planned to do since the beginning? Lol. A fic set 1000+ years before the current HP series. Whoa. Talk about culture shock. So, um. Enjoy?

Obligatory Disclaimer: The Harry Potter series is not mine. So there.

Author's Warning: I am claiming **Copyright** upon **all text** within this fanfic (other than Lexicon and other references). I didn't do days of research for it to be just flagrantly plagarised! If you want to use any descriptions or locations that I have incorporated, including where the founders are respectively from and the mode of dress, **ASK ME FIRST** or **GIVE CREDIT**. Otherwise, do your own research. Thank you.

Requesting: Criticism (to stop me from being weird) and Challenges (to keep me from running out of ideas) Volunteers, anywhere?

HH--Hufflepuff--Hogwarts--Hufflepuff--HH

**Inclusiveness Atypically Hufflepuff**

**-The Traditional Compassion of Hufflepuff-**

The morning was cold; cold enough to leave local animals with no choice but to remain, shivering, in their shelters; cold enough for dewdrops to have to valiantly fight off a creeping frost that threatened to freeze them into ice right where they hung.

It was wetly, unexpectedly,_ cold_; and shocking in a way that only the temperamental days of erratic Scotland could be. Add to it the fact that the western highlands (1) of this north-western nation, already inundated with unending falls of rain, were as damp and miserable as could be expected, and you have a day tailor-made for huddling in around a roaring fireplace.

Then, suddenly, breaking the solitary rambles of Jack Frost around his reclaimed realm, a door creaked open on its un-oiled hinges, releasing from the warmth of an ever-growing building, the generous figure of a well-padded woman.

She wore a short woolen ionar (2) of marigold yellow over a loose-fitting light-blue linen leine (3) that was long enough to reach her feet and brush against her short ankle-boots. She had obviously come out prepared to work, for her leine was bunched above a red leather belt in an attempt to lessen its length. Wide blue sleeves tapered to a tight fit at her leine's fringed cuffs, black bands of embroidery also adorning its neck and hems, with a purple brat (4) lined in the same yellow as her ionar was worn around her shoulders. The brat was secured with a pennanular brooch below her chin, yet still enough slack was allowed so that the cloak could be pulled over the crown of her head in the mimicry of a hood, leaving there no need for a separate headscarf.

With the opacity of a faint fog trailing tendrils of uncertainty and lethargy around the land, the figure could hardly be discerned as it wound its way out of the kitchen's back exit and into the embrace of a blooming herb garden. But enter into the riotous display of colour she did, and with a wholesome disregard for the dirt and damp that attached themselves clingingly to her under-dress's purple-yellow decorated edges as she strode forward and bent to check on some Feverfew seedlings.

At first contact, the average person would perhaps not be able to spot any oddity in the seemingly innocent, everyday sight of a woman kneeling to tend to some plants. Mayhap some random strangeness would still be felt, at her coming out even in this horrid weather; but certainly no large shock or surprise. After all, what was it but just another headscarf-ed servant doing her job? What could _possibly_ be out of place in this satisfying little scene?

_What_, indeed.

In a heartbeat—or, at worst, the next second—any Celt worth their salt would have instantly been able to find something wrong with this picture.

After all, hard-to-get colours like blue and purple were more expensive than the common greens and warm-toned material dyes; therefore, usually only rich people would wear them. Also, most servants wore liene with elbow-length sleeves (5), not full-length ones like this woman did. And the floral embroidery on this lady's liene marked her out from all the usual simple triangles, crosses and zigzags.

Hmm. Something was wrong, alright.

And so the question now would be: what was a highborn woman doing out so early on a day like this, when even servants were allowed to stay in until it got slightly warmer?

There could be any range of answers, ranging from the mysterious to the probable emergency for certain herbs. Or perhaps the answer would be so simple that it would make one blink.

Perhaps it was just because this woman was Helga Hufflepuff.

HH--Hufflepuff--Hogwarts--Hufflepuff--HH

Helga Hufflepuff was far from the usual, run of the mill, extremely talented witch. Not that being incredibly gifted in the manipulation of magic was in any way ordinary or typical within the world's wizarding community. Oh no, not at all. It was just that she did not match up to most opinions of her—meaning, she didn't behave like an acknowledged all-powerful wizarding prodigy was _expected_ to.

Helga was one of the most celebrated European witches of her age. She was even one of the four founders of Hogwarts—not that it was anything really famous yet, since work on it had barely just started. Nevertheless, her reputation and others' expectations demanded that she upheld her _image _to a certain degree, and it definitely did _not_ involve doing menial labour, as she was wont to partake of cheerfully.

Take this day, for instance.

It had been almost Spring-like the day before, but in what seemed to be the merest blink of the eye, the capricious oceanic climate had changed once again, and dropped a censuring freeze upon its people.

Yet the Irish maiden seemed barely fazed by the sudden twist of weather—it was almost as if she did not truly register it. The only concession that she made—not that anyone would be able to see, was to put on hose and braes under all her layers of flared clothing. And, obviously, the thorn in the eyes of any Hogwarts helper was the fact that she was out there at all, when, in an attempt to 'tame' Helga's propensity to 'misbehave', they had expressly asked Godric Gryffindor to place magical locks on all the doors.

They should have known better than to try to keep a _top_-level witch locked in with her _wand_ close at hand. Not that she needed her wand for most magic spells anymore, but _anyway_. They should have known better.

Helga didn't care what others wanted her to do. She cared only that her plants were going to suffer from frostbite if nobody tended to them, and she was as good a candidate as any to do this. After all, in her eyes every witch or wizard was the same. Heck, come to think of it, _everyone_ was the same, as long as they didn't try to heckle or ostracize people who weren't like them or had (or lacked) qualities they themselves had.

_Honestly._

Muggles were so… and the wizarding community was so… _arggh_! Frustrated and having no way to vent her feelings, she gave her head a brisk shake, making her carefully-braided fair hair quiver dangerously, as if the cascade would attempt escape from their bindings at any second.

People and their irrational prejudices annoyed her. But instead of just being annoyed, she would usually initiate steps to get the better of those people. Vindictive? Not really. It was more a question of helping those who were oppressed. And in the current case, the oppressed were the wizarding community, who were being persecuted by Muggles everywhere.

Speaking of magical persecution, when one came to think about it, all this was strange, really. Wizardkind had lived side by side with Muggles over many centuries, and wizards, as history recorded, were mostly respected members of society. However, due to some undecipherable reason, the two communities had begun to separate, and Muggles gradually grew to mistrust and eventually mistreat their magical brothers and sisters. (6) Most wizards attributed this to jealousy of their abilities, but some who subscribed to the conspiracy theory claimed that some other force was at work. Helga didn't know what to think, but she knew that if the latter idea was true, she would take that other force and… do something to them. Lock them up with boggarts for the rest of their life, maybe. Yeah, that would be good.

But in the meantime, little wizarding schools all over the known world were forced to be shut down, and witches became increasingly worried that their children would never be able to get an all-rounded education "in the things that mattered". In the end, things finally came to this: four wizarding leaders took things in hand decided to set up a school in the middle of nowhere, so that the future wizarding generation could be taught without Muggle interference and persecution.

Helga lifted her head to the strange, turreted, whatchamacallit beside her that Godric had dreamed up. The four of them were building this 'castle' together, as far from prying Muggle eyes as they could get, and after all construction was completed they would send out discreet invitations to wizarding families to send their children thence, so that they could be trained and instructed in the magical arts.

She bent her head again after that brief viewing; to her, plants, and the good, honest raising of them, were much more likeable than the mound of magically transfigured stone that was her temporary home. They took, they gave, and they didn't fight with the other plants that she planted. They were the ideal community.

As she stood from her inspection of the Feverfew leaves, she looked over the herb garden with a critical eye, taking note of its progress so far and of the additions she would have to make for it while the others worked on other parts of their pet project, Hogwarts.

Her garden had the usual raised planting beds, wattle fences, and central wellhead, all features of a medieval monastic garden. It had the traditional herbs of one, too, and all plants (whether they should be there or not) were labeled according to their uses. The others had insisted that this was totally unnecessary and would possibly place Hogwarts in danger, but she had been equally firm, and they had let her be—after she had agreed on bewitching the little signposts to be visible only to wizard eyes. After all, though it would be highly distressing if anyone were ever to take the wrong ingredient for use in potions, it would be even more distressing for a Muggle to read these and go into a panic.

To keep up appearances and also for probable necessitous use, there were household plants such as thistle, juniper and soapwort; medicinal plants including Feverfew and St. John's-Wort; some aromatic plants particularly Vervain which promoted happiness and Lavendar which calmed; and plants for salads and the kitchen, including borage, leek, chives, caraway, and parsley.

But there was where its similarity to the average herb garden ended.

There were some uncommon plants there; not as many as the "typical" ones, but still there nonetheless (7). These were the bubotubers (thick, black, slug-like plants), belladonna, daisies, dittany, ginger, and hellebore. Some lovage, mandrakes, and aligriwid were planned too, but first she would have to see a supplier about getting them. Not only that, her imported dragon and mooncalf dung would not be arriving anytime soon, and thus the plants wouldn't be able to grow as fast as she would like, and classes on healing would be stunted.

As Helga looked over the product of a month's hard work, she thought again that perhaps a few fruit trees nearby would be in character, so that the students could do some community fruit-gathering and other teamwork stints together. She also made a mental note to transfigure some extra material into gardening pots later, so that the more special plants could be grown indoors in a soundproofed room. Imagine Muggles passing by and hearing a mandrake screaming as she harvested it. It would only end in Oblivation.

At that little surmisation, she tilted slightly back on her heels, her thoughts flying again to the establishment besides her and why it had to exist. Her musings were, however, interrupted by the hurried, distinctive chime of ornamental beads.

She looked towards the far entrance of the garden, brow furrowed as a woman of diluted Viking descent slowed her hasty run and approached with a hesitant expression on her worried face.

This woman wore a hangaroc (8) over multiple underdresses. As was typical, the hangaroc had looped straps over the woman's shoulders, and the straps were fastened to the front of the pinafore using "tortoise brooches". A string of beads, a comb, a small knife, and an amulet to prevent fatigue during travel hung from the brooches. These were what Helga had heard.

"You are…?" she asked, tone courteous as always and hoping that her translation spell had not worn off. She had never seen this person before, and had no desire to frighten the other off with a sentence in Gaoidhealg.

"The people told me that I could find a healer here," the comer blurted out first in Hen Gymraeg. "I am… my name is Beitris, and I come from the village. My son is sick with the fever, has been since he woke up screaming in the middle of the night, and the neighbours said to head up past the forest. They said," and she hesitated, "that if there is someone who can cast away the evil, it is the person who works the herbs here."

Helga smiled. It was strange, yes; despite all the prejudice against magic, the 10th century was still a period in which people's beliefs were permeated by superstitions. Muggles still knew that elves and goblins existed, and to them the air was filled with invisible powers of evil, against whose conspiracies remedies must be applied.

"Tell me his conditions," she said simply, and then proceeded to combine in her head an all-cure that could cover all possible ailments. Finally she asked for the little leather pouch that hung from the other's belt, seeing with brief humour that it was etched with a "lucky" four leaf clover.

Extracting her own knife and walking to a corner of the garden, she bent and located a few herbs, combining with their picking certain Muggle ceremonies which she was aware of. A glance towards the North accompanied the collecting of some leaves; a circle in the dirt preceded the harvesting of certain flowers. And of course, she murmured words all the time, seemingly invoking the goddesses, but mingling within the words some little spells to fortify her concoction. Yes, people were afraid of witches, but if one knew how to, one could just be a healer or priestess.

Tightening the straps of the pouch and plucking a few passion vine petals, she returned it to its owner. "Take this and mix it with a cup of milk and three drops of ale, and some honey to sweeten it all. Your child should be well soon. The petals are for you and your son to consume, and they will boost sleep to replenish energy."

Beitris took the pouch with many tumbled thanks.

"It is but my duty," Helga demurred. "Smooth sailing in your voyage through life, Beitris."

The Scotwoman seemed surprised at the correct literal translation of her name and little allusion to her ancestry, and then smiled brilliantly before bobbing a curtsey and leaving.

Helga smiled faintly as well as she watched the Muggle disappear in the distance. The others might not understand wholly why she was helping the very race that had forced them to have to conceal their abilities, but she was of the opinion that not all Muggles thought the same. Therefore, she helped when she could.

Meanwhile, she had a garden to tend to, and vines to twine around some of the weaker plants, so that they might stand together firmer. Grow and grow alike. And in this way too, she hoped that Hogwarts would bind together all who came within, that they might continue the legacy of witchcraft and continue to co-exist.

HH--Hufflepuff--Hogwarts--Hufflepuff--HH

In the years to come, people would say that it was Helga Hufflepuff's kind nature and goodwill to all that kept Hogwarts together, and that it was why Hogwarts contains many people from different walks of life.

Was it? Or was it not? One might still wonder.

In the interim, Hogwarts still stands, and its founders' aims were at least partially accomplished. As Helga would probably comment, is that not enough?

HH--Hufflepuff--Hogwarts--Hufflepuff--HH

**-END-**

HH--Hufflepuff--Hogwarts--Hufflepuff--HH

References:

(1) According to JKR, Hogwarts is built in a forested area, directly next to a fairly large lake, in the highlands of Scotland.  
(2) Ionar: woolen overdress or tunic; is shorter than a leine.  
(3) Leine: ankle length linen dress decorated at cuffs, hem and neck; has close fitting sleeves; is wholly one colour.  
(4) Brat: single-colour rectangular cloak made of wool; usually fringed and decorated with embroidery at hems; length is at least equal to the wearer's height.  
(5) Short sleeves are easier to work in.  
Hose and braes: trousers made in two parts - the hose were the legs, and the braes were like baggy shorts.  
(6) Sources of magical history are HP Lexicon's Wizarding Through The Ages and Hogwarts: A History.  
(7) Some of these plants were sourced from the HP Lexicon or One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Professor Stark at HP RPG Resources.  
(8) Hangaroc: pinafore.

HH--Hufflepuff--Hogwarts--Hufflepuff--HH

Author's End Note: Finally done! Anyway, I haven't beta-ed this yet so if anyone picks up on any errors, please tell me! If anyone picks up on people using unauthorized garb-description from my fic, tell me too. Especially if they say that Helga is Irish. Why? **Because** everyone else on the **forums** says that Helga is from Wales! I reserve copyright on this reasoning of mine. is huffy because no one else agreed with her

Random: Finally done… I think I deserve an _onigiri_ for actually finishing this. Can anyone donate me some _wakame_ and enough rice to make one?


	2. SO: Beitris POV

Mini Author's Note: Spin-off time! Beitris's POV of the incidents.

Obligatory Disclaimer: The Harry Potter series is not mine. This, however, is.

Requesting: Criticism (to stop me from being weird) and Challenges (to keep me from running out of ideas) Volunteers, anywhere?

Beitris--IaH--UMWizH--IaH--Beitris

**SMWC 01: Beitris**

The date was the third day of the second winter month, 980 AD.

Beings everywhere were hiding away from the frosty morning as the previous night's fall of rain merged with dawn's cold call, creating a day as damp and miserable as could be.

As such, no one in their right mind should be out, _especially_ not so early, when they could wait until the sun reached its peak and the day got slightly warmer.

Yet someone _was_ out, in the middle of nowhere, on a path that she did not recognize, going to a place she did not know. And, even stranger was, this someone did not feel the cold.

No, this someone was _not_ protected by a heat-you-up spell.

The reason was something far more simple than that: this someone was in a rush. And therefore with energy burning and making her heated flesh perspire, she was now more clammy and stifled under her hangaroc and leines, than shivering.

Beitris--IaH--UMWizH--IaH--Beitris

Beitris the Weaver prayed as she fought through the semi-darkness of the bush and repressed her fear of vindictive goblins, and headed upwards of the highlands.

She was imploring to all the Viking gods her father had taught her, to all the Scottish deities that her mother had ever mentioned; promising them things and asking for favours, even as dread grew all the while behind her thoughts, and increased with every passing minute.

For her son G'nagal was sick; suddenly, desperately so; in all probability the victim of an evil curse by some haggled old witch who was jealous of his youth and vitality.

Her heart quailed at even the thought of this. Curses were notoriously hard to be rid of, and there was no healer skilled enough in the village to cast that malevolence away; she knew, as for long, worrying pulses of the waves had she called for help, and received only murmurs to lessen her coming grief.

She refused to accept the predicted fate.

Her son was her only one in a bevy of daughters, and she would do anything at all to save him.

And so here she was on a journey of faith, as there was only one hope in the distance for him—a fragile hope that might not even exist.

Beitris--IaH--UMWizH--IaH--Beitris

Soft leather boots squished through the last of forest compost, and then Beitris was past the unknown regions of the terrifying woods and entering a wide, open area.

Joy blazed in both tired eyes and soul as they alighted upon a welcome sight.

There was a fenced-off garden after the forest, just as her neighbours the McCorrs had said, as they drew her away in secrecy. An enclosed garden that roiled with colour; standing by itself, with no other glimpsable building near it. (see end-note)

Beitris blinked, partially in surprise, partially in relief. The others had not been jesting with her, then. The trip would probably be worth it.

She ran towards it, weary limbs given new hope, though her steps faltered when she saw fully the figure within the garden.

The woman was in the customary leine and brat, but Beitris found it strange that this Scottish garb seemed to be more influenced by that of their Irish neighbours. Of course, this was not uncommon, considering that the Scots maintained good relationships with their southern neighbours. It was just… finding an Irish-style dress this remote in the country was _really_ rather surprising.

But she put that thought firmly away, along with her hesitation and apprehension, and walked towards the motherly figure in purple and yellow, noting with more surprise that the other had on a blue leine.

Her steps became uncertain.

Instinct told her that this was no servant or mere healer.

Was this really the person she was looking for?

And would she have the power to triumph over evil?

Beitris--IaH--UMWizH--IaH--Beitris

Thought for G'nagal brought her forward.

The other woman noticed her approach and frowned a little. Beitris's heart quailed; then she was set at rest as the other spoke in a polite tone. "You are…?"

The weaver swallowed, forced herself calm; tried not to let her words erupt in a flood. "The people told me that I could find a healer here. I am… my name is Beitris, and I come from the village." She gestured a little, helplessly. "My son is sick with the fever, has been since he woke up screaming in the middle of the night, and the neighbours said to head up past the forest. They said," and she looked hopefully at the other, "that if there is someone who can cast away the evil, it is the person who works the herbs here."

Stopping, she felt her heart thud slowly, frightening.

_Ba-dump. Ba-dum. Ba-dump._

She thought that the other must hear it, so loud it sounded to her own ears.

But the woman in blue and yellow and purple just smiled, asking only for some specifics. Beitris, not knowing how best to phrase things, started with what she had seen and heard as she was rudely awakened from her slumber, and described all the other noticeable symptoms. She wondered whether to add on personal presumptions and fears, then decided against it. The healer might be offended by it.

An outstretched hand asked for Beitris's leather pouch, which had come from her mother and had one of the famously protective and lucky four-leaf clovers etched upon it. Hope bubbling in a fountain, and head almost giddy with relief as this meant that some cure had been found, she unhooked it, handing it over to the other willingly though the pouch was something that she highly treasured.

As the lady moved off to gather some herbs, Beitris let her eyes wander. The garden had the usual raised planting beds, wattle fences, and central wellhead, and many plants which she recognized from her cooking. The garden itself was obviously well tended, and everything had a systematic feel to it that the weaver very much appreciated.

Now and then she saw the other obeying certain ceremonies and speaking invocations, and she was awed by the great knowledge that this person must have. She thought that the other must have had priestess or druidess training, for no normal person would ever have been able to remember all the procedures for each different plant. She herself could not, and she was well known for an excellent memory.

It was strange, of course, that no thought that the other might intend harm would cross her mind. But this, she attributed to the obvious aura of serenity and kindness that the other radiated, that she could usually feel when communing with her inner self at Beltane and the festival of the Goddess. And Beitris prided herself on being able to sense these things very well.

The owner of the herb garden soon returned, and with instructions. "Take this and mix it with a cup of milk and three drops of ale, and some honey to sweeten it all. Your child should be well soon. The petals are for you and your son to consume, and they will boost sleep to replenish energy." Somehow all other necessary knowledge was formed in her mind, and as the white petals were held out Beitris accepted all, heart grateful and with many tumbled thanks.

"It is but my duty," was the murmured response, and "smooth sailing in your voyage through life, Beitris."

Beitris was surprised. To be Viking was to sail the seas, and her name indeed meant a voyage through life.

Yet just as quickly, the surprise faded. This woman was of the good, after all, and the gods had probably given her special knowledge. She smiled at the other, touched by the kind workings of fate, then sketched a curtsey before leaving.

Beitris--IaH--UMWizH--IaH--Beitris

She chewed on a petal as she went on. Worry gradually left her heart, and it was with a peaceful countenance that she arrived by G'nagal's bedside and stroked the side of his cheek.

Hours later, with the help of the concoction, her irrepressible lad was once more up and chasing the chickens, and the McCorrs were smiling knowingly at her as they passed by with their little flock.

She would always give them a special smile of thanks, and make her mind up to go through the forest once more with a little gift for the one who had saved her son.

But she would never actually remember to do so, though she would not know why.

There would be a niggling feeling about it at the strangest times, and the talk of evil spreading never affected her as strongly as it did others, as if she knew that somehow they would be protected.

Indeed, as a respected member of her community, with the miraculous healing of her son being attributed to special blessings from the gods, she was instead able to help allay fears of catastrophe and maintain the peace of her little village.

She never managed to actually form the thought that beyond the trees, there was one whom she knew was powerful enough to cast away the dark.

And she would never realize that she had not once heard the healer give her name, or wonder why it did not bother her.

Beitris--IaH--UMWizH--IaH--Beitris

Author's End Note: Regarding the description of the herb garden as standing alone, "with no other glimpsable building near it", is because Hogwarts is supposedly bewitched so that Muggles could not see it. Being an invention of Godric Gryffindor (here in my imagination, anyway) the "castle" would have really freaked out any normal person! This way it ties in with Helga's unconcern for Beitris's reaction to the strange building in IaH. The herb garden, I allowed to be seen, as it was relatively "normal". And that's about it…

Post Script: I haven't beta-ed this yet so if anyone picks up on any errors, please tell me!


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